On the Road and to the Horizon
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: Maybe he's mad. Or maybe he can see what others can't. The answer doesn't change a thing for Dean and his Impala.


**Title:** On the Road and to the Horizon  
><strong>Author:<strong> PwnedByPineapple  
><strong>Summary:<strong> _Maybe he's mad. Or maybe he can see what others can't. The answer doesn't change a thing for Dean and his Impala._  
><strong>RatingWarning(s):** K; none  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Companion to the Pirates of the Caribbean fic "Across the Sea and to the Horizon" and the Firefly fic "In the Sky and to the Horizon". Inspired by the series Axis Powers Hetalia, which has given me an unhealthy obsession with personifying things.

**Disclaimer: This fangirl owns nothing.**

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><p>People never really understand when Dean tells them that his baby is special. Add that to the fact that what makes her special only ever happens when he knows no one is around, and it leaves him wondering if maybe he's utterly crazy.<p>

He couldn't be more alone on an evening like this. He's traveling across the country to meet back up with Sam, and it's going to take him a few days regardless, so a little stop like this doesn't hurt. Sometimes it's nice to be on his own for a little while - away from his brother, away from hunting, even away from civilization. Because all that surrounds him are fields, rolling fields lit gold by the sun's dying light. If he doesn't pay attention to the empty highway behind him, Dean can almost pretend that the land is younger and mighty, untouched by human hands. He can almost believe that it goes on forever.

He sits on top of the Impala with his legs dangling off its side, with a beer balanced in one hand and hardly touched at this point. He looks westward to the sunset, his eyes tracing the pink and gold and orange patterns that the clouds make, and he waits.

He doesn't have to wait long.

There's a warm presence pressed against his back, and he doesn't have to turn around to know that she's there, to know that she's sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her back against his - he's been in this position more than once. He doesn't say anything at first, either. They sit like that for some time, and the silence between them is the most comfortable Dean has felt in a long time.

Eventually, he takes a sip of beer. "Everything working okay?"

"You already know the answer," she tells him gently. "You know me better than I do. I feel fine."

"Good," says Dean. "Have to check, y'know?"

He hears a lone vehicle speed past on the highway, and a dusty wind is stirred by its passing. Dean wonders what the driver saw - a solitary man sitting atop an old car? Or two people?

"Am I crazy?" he asks bluntly, because he's been wondering about that lately, and he's starting to think that it's true.

"Crazy people don't ask that question," the spirit of the Impala answers. "Why? Do you think I'm just part of your imagination? Or part of a damaged mind?"

She's hit the nail on the head, but he's noticed that she's rather good at that. "Something like that," he mutters, taking another swig of beer. "I wouldn't be the only hunter to see things."

Silence once again descends on them, and briefly Dean wonders if she's just given up talking to him. But that isn't like her, and he's proven wrong when all of a sudden, she speaks up. "Your father could see me."

Dean's eyes widen. He leans forward and turns around to find that she's already done the same, looking back at him with a soft smile. "Dad?" he asks disbelievingly.

"But only after your mother died," the girl continues. "To tell you the truth, he needed it. Same as you do, Dean. You are my human. I can't let you be alone in this, can I?"

The words aren't what Dean was expecting, and he wonders if she's implying that she chooses to show herself to him. But they have the desired effect. He starts to believe - even a little bit - that maybe he's not so crazy after all. Even though this whole situation is too impossible, he believes it... or he wants to believe it. He wants to believe in this good thing in his life, so few and far between the things that aren't so good.

"So... you... talked to Dad?" he asks hesitantly.

"A lot," she says. "He thought he was crazy, too."

Anyone would, Dean thinks with a snort. He turns back around, relaxes into his earlier position, and her back once again rests against his. He doesn't finish his beer. It dangles in his hand, untouched once again, and he gazes over the fields as if it's his last sight of them.

They're turning red now, red with the sun's dying light, and a gentle breeze dances through them, stirring them into a scarlet ocean. He likes this sight more than anything else. He likes this situation more than anything else. Here, with his car, on his way to meet up with his brother... there's nothing pressing him, nothing nagging at his mind. He can go anywhere, follow any of America's roads, and here he's in the heartland, where it's easy to believe that it doesn't end. That nothing ends.

"Well," he says at last, as the sun throws out its very last rays, barely visible over the darkening horizon. "Best be moving again."

She gently takes the beer from him and hops down to the ground. "Don't want the cops to think you've been driving drunk, do we?" she says with a smile and turns to stash the bottle away, bury it somewhere.

Dean climbs into the driver's seat, revs the engine up. It rumbles underneath him, still as strong as ever, and he can hear her laughing in it. It gives him a smile, and as he pulls out of there, enters the highway devoid of any life except for him, he sees her out the corner of his eye, reclining in the passenger's seat and giving him an expectant look.

"Well?" she asks, and he knows just what she's indicating.

A moment later, Led Zeppelin is blasting from the radio, and he finds himself singing along. He bellows it out, and he probably looks like a fool, but he doesn't care about that. Because she's singing right along with him, and he can hear her voice in the engine, the tires, the everything that is his car.

There's something safe and calming about being in this car. She envelops him entirely, protective and welcoming, and briefly he wonders if maybe he's projecting his need for home, for safety, into the image of the woman who's riding shotgun and singing with him, the woman who is his beloved car. Because it's a pretty ridiculous concept, and Dean knows he's screwed up enough in the head to manage it.

But he doesn't care. If his mind wants to do that, then let it. He'll take what good he can get, no matter how crazy it is, because he figures that she's right. He needs it.


End file.
